Pitch Black (16 page)

“Wyatt offered me a job. I took it.”

She had circled the table once, paused to glance at the laptop screen, then walked around again. “Did you leave on bad terms?”

“Do you always ask such intrusive questions?”

Shrugging, she replied, “Do you always answer questions with questions?”

“Look who’s talking.”

Her soft laughter gave him the first real flush of pleasure he’d had in hours. He liked this woman’s laugh. Liked its huskiness and the way it brightened her eyes.

“I was a journalist, remember,” she explained after she had circumnavigated the table once more. She seemed to have gotten her wanderlust out of her system, because she sank into her chair again. “I couldn’t help noticing your reaction when your boss mentioned the BAU.”

“They’re going to want in on this the moment they realize the suspect we’re chasing is the same one they’ve been after for a couple of years. At least, we think he is.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

Of course it was. It just wasn’t going to be a comfortable thing, not for any of them. Him, because seeing his former colleagues again wasn’t going to be the highlight of his millennium. Wyatt because, judging by the way they were stonewalling him—and had been since last summer’s Reaper case—somebody in the BAU had it in for the man.

“It’ll be fine,” he replied, wondering if he sounded as unconvinced as he felt. “We’re all on the same team.”

“Okay,” she said, dropping the subject, as he had hoped she would.

Silence descended between them, though it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. It was broken every minute or so, when Sam would refresh the screen, sigh, then perhaps tap a response to another of her visitors. During the long day, they’d fallen into sync with each other. A snap of tension might exist beneath the surface, but they’d maintained focus on the job for hours.

Alec had long since given up on the jacket and tie and had loosened the top buttons of his dress shirt. After five, he didn’t give a damn where they were. A fourteen-hour day entitled him to an unbuttoned collar.

As for Sam, she’d held up beautifully. Her response had exceeded anything he’d have expected from a civilian who hadn’t even known this monster existed until yesterday. Though she didn’t try to pretend her fear had left her entirely, she’d grown more relaxed during the day, both when the room had been filled with agents, and now, when they were alone. As if she’d accepted the fact that they—that he—would not let anything happen to her.

While calm, though, she was visibly fatigued. Dark smudges had appeared beneath her eyes, and she stretched occasionally, as if to relieve cramped muscles.

“Need some more coffee?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Despite how exhausted I am, I’m also wired. I’ll be awake all night as it is. How do you handle this kind of tension all the time?”

“Scotch and video games.”

One fine brow arched, and a soft trill of surprised laughter emerged from her pretty mouth. “Excuse me?”

“What can I say? Beating the hell out of little cyber dudes on the XBox helps my mood tremendously at the end of a crappy day.” His words brought another tiny laugh and a smile that stayed on her lips.

“Okay. Scotch and video games. Can’t say I have any scotch, but I can twist the top off the bottle of Jose Cuervo Tricia gave me for Christmas.”

“Tequila instead of a sweater or one of those plastic bags full of flour and chocolate chips that you’re supposed to use to make your own damn cookies? Maybe you should forgive her phone manners.”

She laughed again, and this time a gorgeous dimple appeared in her cheek. “Like I said, a pain in the butt. But she’s also the best friend I’ve ever had.” Clearing her throat, she softly added, “She’s the one who got me, the, uh, nightshirt I was wearing this morning.”

He’d noticed the nightshirt. Actually he’d noticed what she had on under the nightshirt. Especially the absolutely nothing she had on under the nightshirt.

“It probably seemed a bit angry.”

Actually, it had seemed sexy as hell to him. But he’d go with angry if it made her feel better. “I think divorce is a pretty angry subject.”

“You?”

He shook his head. “Never married.” Something made him add, “I did go through a breakup last summer. We had dated for over a year.”

“Rough,” she murmured. “Do you miss her?”

“I miss my dog.”

Her jaw dropped. “She took your dog?”

“Yeah. I was . . . ” He thought about how to explain without really explaining. “I couldn’t take care of him for a while. She had given him to me in the first place, and she loved him. So she got him from my place and took him to hers, temporarily, then refused to give him back.”

“What a bitch.”

Her anger on his behalf both amused and warmed him. “Nah, he was male.”

She rolled her eyes. “That was so not funny.”

“What can I say? Considering my ass is falling asleep after being in this chair all day, I guess I’m not at my wittiest.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Having given up on finding any comfortable position, he was now sprawled back in one of the uncomfortable seats, arms linked across his chest and legs extended out, crossed at the ankle.

She shifted in her own chair, obviously feeling the same way. Like the tenacious woman she was, she got right back to the subject. “How could your girlfriend do such a thing?”

“She thought he would be better off with her.”

Another eyebroll. “Lame excuse.”

“Actually, it wasn’t. At the time, she was probably right, which is why I didn’t fight her on it. I was away from home for quite a while.”

“Yeah, but stealing your dog, that’s wild.”

As wild as whacking up your laptop with a golf club?
The question almost emerged, but he swallowed it down. Along with the curiosity that had been nagging at him today as he’d pictured the possible reasons for the incident, and the identity of the person holding the club.

“Anyway, once I got back, I wasn’t capable of running with him or taking care of him the way I once did.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated, wishing he’d cut the story short. He should have thought about how inquisitive she was and expected her to quickly stop focusing on the dog and zone in on the backstory. “I had been pretty badly injured.”

She cast a quick, instinctive glance over him, from his head down the length of his body, as if she might spot some sign of what had happened to him.

Then she looked again. Nothing quick about it this time.

Her attention shifted. The perusal became about something other than casual conversation. Almost feeling the heat of her stare sliding all over him, he knew what she was seeing. With his clothes rumpled and his jaw lightly grizzled, he probably didn’t much resemble the guy who’d shown up at her door Tuesday.

She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, her expression implied the opposite. Her lashes slowly lowered in almost sultry fashion, until she was watching him from behind half-closed lids. Those expressive eyes darkened; the lush lips parted. A soft, nearly inaudible sigh flowed across them, and a flush crawled up her cheeks.

No. She no longer looked afraid. She looked hungry.

He was being visually devoured by a beautiful, sensual woman who’d been wearing a shield of angry armor toward men since her divorce and had suddenly remembered she once had a sex drive.

His heart picked up its pace, and he felt the blood in his veins heat to near boiling. He hadn’t bargained for this. Being physically attracted to her was one thing. He could handle that. At least, he thought he could, despite knowing, after spending a whole day with her, how much he could like this woman.

Just now, though, realizing she was attracted to him, too, things had gone from intense to almost dangerous.

Dangerous for him because, with his track record, getting tangled up with a witness was about the dumbest career move he could make. Dangerous for her because . . . well, because Alec’s head wasn’t in the game right now. He was still too screwed up from what had happened to even think about involving somebody else in his battle with his own demons.

Easy to remember earlier, when she’d been afraid, on edge, and uncertain. Now that she’d segued into aware, sultry, and sensual, he could get into serious trouble.

When she realized he’d seen her response, Sam caught the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. The room, old and poorly ventilated with one small heating vent, usually felt chilly. It suddenly got warmer, the walls almost seeming to shrink around them, making the cramped space even more intimate.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

He didn’t know if her apology was for the intrusive questions or the deliberate, provocative stare. Good manners said she should owe him one for being nosy. But his own need to keep thinking of her as just a witness meant it had better be the look. That dangerous, oh-it’s-bad-but-it’s-still-so-good look.

“It’s okay.”

Though she was visibly embarrassed, Sam didn’t turn away. She made no effort to avert her eyes or change the subject. She watched him closely, waiting for him to speak. The woman wanted either a left turn into the tale of his injury, or a right one into something a whole lot more dangerous: an acknowledgment that he’d seen, that he understood. That he’d responded.

When he didn’t humor her, didn’t take the conversation one way or another, she finally blew out an impatient sigh. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, how were you hurt?”

She’d gone left. And he was suddenly so relieved, he spat out the truth. “Shot.”

Her gasp could have been heard outside. “You were
shot
? Like, with a gun?”

“No
like
about it.” Reading her dismay in the quiver of her mouth, he shrugged in unconcern. “It was five months ago; I’m fine.”

Sam obviously wasn’t so sure. She reached out and put a hand on his arm, touching him so lightly, so fleetingly, he wondered afterward if he had imagined it. “I can’t imagine what you went through.”

“Wasn’t anything I ever want to repeat, but I survived it.”

“Who shot you?”

The question he most didn’t want to answer. Because being shot by a psychopath or a bank robber, an abusive dirtbag, any of those would have been okay to talk about. Heroic maybe. At least something he could wrap his mind around. He still hadn’t wrapped his mind around what had really happened that hot summer day.

He intentionally averted his gaze, staring past her. “It’s a long story.”

She refreshed the screen, sighing when it came back unchanged. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

As if having time to kill meant he should spill his guts about something he hadn’t even discussed with his family, his ex…nobody except an FBI shrink and the big shots at his disciplinary hearing. Oh, and Wyatt, who’d been the most understanding of all of them?

Offering her the bare bones, he said, “I got too close to a witness. Got involved, let down my guard. And paid a very serious price for it.” He fell silent, his entire body stiffening in unwelcome, physically telling her to step back from her line of questioning.

“Okay, sure. You don’t know me; it was rude to ask. I apologize.”

“Don’t. I opened the door.” And promptly closed it.

“Tell me one thing.”

He tensed.

“The person who did it, was he caught? Prosecuted?”

Alec waited for a long moment before lifting his eyes to meet her inquisitive stare. Finally, he answered, “She’s incarcerated, awaiting trial down in Georgia.”

Sam processed the sex of his assailant with a quick flare of the eyes and a brief clench of her mouth. Otherwise, she didn’t react in any way. But he could almost see the churning of those wheels in her brain and knew exactly where that imagination—and bruised-divorcée spirit—had taken her. Hearing a woman had tried to murder him, his admission that he’d gotten too close to a witness . . . well, she had undoubtedly painted quite a picture in her mind with that small palette of colors. She wouldn’t be the first.

He almost spat out the truth, not wanting those kinds of speculations influencing her opinion of him. The idea that she thought he was that kind of agent, that kind of
man
, ripped at his guts. But he kept his mouth shut. His lapse in judgment—not seeing the kindly-looking mother of the killer he’d been after for the dangerous, murderous bitch she was—had been the greatest mistake of his life.

Jesus, I’m sorry, Ferguson. Sorrier than I can ever say.

His sympathy toward a frightened mom, who seemed to want her son captured so no one else would get hurt, had led him to believe her when she’d said she had no idea where their suspect was. Not to mention neglect to check her for weapons of her own.

She’d been lying. And when they’d moved to stop her son from escaping through a back window, she’d opened fire.

He had learned his lesson about letting his guard down around witnesses. Learned it the hard way. Judging by the way Sam had devoured him with her eyes five minutes ago, it was on the verge of happening again. So Alec remained silent.

Sam looked way from him and leaned forward in her chair. Dropping her elbows onto the table, she lowered her face onto her hands, cupping her forehead and rubbing at her temples with her thumbs, visibly exhausted and disheartened.

“Okay, this isn’t getting us anywhere,” he said, making a sudden decision. “It doesn’t mean we’re giving up. Our guy could just be cautious, suspicious about being directly engaged. He might have only the dead of night to ride around and do his thing, and nobody expects you to sit here until three a.m.”

She lifted her head, appearing hopeful. “You think he might still show up?”

“It’s possible. We’ve had a long day. Let’s go check in with Brandon, see if he’s finished with your hard drive, and work on getting you home sometime before tomorrow.”

“You’ll take me home?” she asked, her brow rising in surprise. “Really? I can go?”

In those moments when Sam had created scenarios in her mind about his shooting, probably deciding he was at the very least unprofessional, or worse, a womanizer, he suspected she’d built a mental wall of her own. One that reminded her she was a graduate of the School of All Men Suck, if he remembered her nightshirt correctly. Now, though, the wall was down and she sounded relieved and appreciative.